


sentì il dolore nella musica

by CountlessUntruths (KaliCephirot)



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-20
Updated: 2008-09-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:39:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8617252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaliCephirot/pseuds/CountlessUntruths
Summary: When he dances, Mytho is really the prince that Fakir adored when he was a child.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by [this.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y3ZLk4Sf-9o)

**Title:** sentì il dolore nella musica  
**Fandom:** Princess Tutu  
**Warnings:** None.  
**Characters/couples:** Fakir- >Mytho.  
**Summary:** When he dances, Mytho is really the prince that Fakir adored when he was a child.  
**Rating:** PG.  
**Notes:** Heavily inspired by [**this.**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y3ZLk4Sf-9o)

**sentì il dolore nella musica**

When he dances, Mytho really is the prince that Fakir adored when he was a child. Even he can pretend he doesn't see the emptiness of golden eyes, when he sees Mytho dance.

The quiet strength of Mytho's arms as he lifts Rue's form, the elegant silence of his sautée, his piruette. No-one can resist the charm of the prince when he dances and neither can he. He follows with eyes just as hungry as everyone else's whenever it's Mytho's turn to dance. Mytho raises his arms above his head, a high fifth as he then pretends to faint to the side, the music weeping for the heart that it's breaking.

As Rue comes forward, the magic that enchants Fakir dispels, but this time he is the only one freed of it. The rest of the class sighs as if their hearts where breaking as ever so daintily Rue does her en pointe to get close to the prince, her free arm moving as the spirit she is supposed to be. It doesn't matter that she is such a talented ballerina, or that Mytho's steps remain as perfect as before. Now that he is dancing with someone else, Fakir can't fool himself anymore.

Mytho's dance is as empty as he is. Suddenly the quiet strength of his legs seems distant and as if it was happening almost by mistake. The way he holds Rue and leans both of them low is too silent for something that should scream of joy. Mytho's face remains blank, always blank, forever the prince that won't smile.

Fakir averts his eyes until they're done.

*

Mytho, Fakir is sure, would not care if he was to die, if he was to disappear. He tells himself that that alone is a proper reason why not to die, when he wouldn't be mourned.

With the sunset highlighting Mytho as he dances with nothing but his shadow, Fakir moves from where he was, watches as Mytho reaches a hand forward – and then, it would be Rue taking his hand, or any other prima ballerina – but it's him who takes it, pulls at it a little even as he stands ready, as if he was to wield his sword.

Mytho has no surprise left in him for this, and he just murmurs 'Fakir' as he moves forward, shifting his stance as Fakir directs this pas de deux, frail in his arms as Fakir curls his arm around his waist, as he helps Mytho in his piruette.

Fakir has always found fault how, in most ballets, it seems as if the focus is always on the danseuse, even in the pas de deux, a quiet bitterness at all the stories that always have a prince and a princess, a fairy and a prince, even princess and knights but who hold no comfort for those like him, knights with broken lords, knights that are made to pretend they are lords.

Mytho's back is against his chest and Fakir presses close, turns him again so that Mytho is looking at him. His eyes are empty but his breathing is heavy, and when Fakir lifts him against him, Mytho doesn't tear his eyes away from him. Fakir touches Mytho's leg for Mytho's piruette, and before they can keep on with this pretense, where the danseuse would have gently crumbled in a ecarté as she turned to stone, with the danseur on his knees, begging for her to come back, he tears apart. It's just his fate that Mytho misunderstands this, that Mytho turns with him, his fingers curling around his wrist as if he cared.

Fakir reacts before he can think it twice, tells himself that it doesn't matter, that Mytho would let him anyway and he presses Mytho against the mirror, holding his wrists against its surface. Mytho just blinks slowly and looks at him with emtpy golden eyes.

“Fakir,” Mytho mentions, doesn't care what Fakir could do with him right then and there, cares nothing at all of how close they danced, of how the blood is rushing inside Fakir's body, of how much he wants.

... of how little Mytho cares at all.

Mytho cocks his head to the side like a dove and Fakir makes himself let go, tells Mytho to pick up his things because they are going to their dorm, now. There'll be bruises, he knows, on Mytho's pale skin where he grabbed him.

Mytho won't care about that. Fakir will.  



End file.
